A Necessary Pain

My husband suddenly announced, "From now on, we're splitting everything, 50/50. I'm only responsible for myself."

I didn’t cry. I didn't scream. I just looked at him calmly and said, "Okay."

The next morning, he got dressed in his tailored suit and frowned. "Where's breakfast?"

A cold smile touched my lips. "We're 50/50, remember? You're on your own."

He froze. I smiled. This was just the beginning…

01

The candlelight from our third-anniversary dinner cast a glacial glow on the laptop screen Matt had pushed in front of me.

He had meticulously crafted an Excel spreadsheet. The title, in a cold, sans-serif font, read: Proposal for the Optimization of Marital Finances.

Optimization. What an insult.

"Sophie, we need to talk."

His voice was devoid of warmth, as if he were leading a trivial weekly meeting with his department. He explained that with his seven-figure salary and my status as a full-time homemaker, our financial model was "unhealthy." For the long-term health of our home, he proposed that starting tomorrow, all living expenses would be split, 50/50.

He never once mentioned our seven years together, the three years we'd been married. He didn't mention how I’d abandoned a promising career as a CPA to become the "unhealthy" stay-at-home wife he now looked down upon.

The entire conversation was about money, efficiency, return on investment.

Disdain. It pricked my skin like a thousand invisible needles. I looked at him—the man I had loved for seven years, the man I had married—and saw a stranger. A fist clenched around my heart, so tight I could barely breathe.

But I didn't weep or question him.

I just gave a slight nod. "Okay."

Just like that, he had quantified our marriage into a cold, sterile financial report. Fine. He shouldn't be surprised when I decide to settle the accounts using the very methods he so admired.

He seemed taken aback by my calm acceptance, but his surprise was quickly overshadowed by a wave of palpable relief. He closed the laptop. "Get some rest," he said, the words as robotic as a pre-programmed response.

We lay in bed with our backs to each other, a chasm wider than the Grand Canyon separating us.

The next morning, my internal clock woke me at the usual time. But instead of heading to the kitchen to prepare his three-minute soft-boiled eggs and pour-over coffee, I sat at my vanity, methodically applying my skincare and makeup.

Matt emerged from the walk-in closet, wrestling with his tie, his brow furrowed in annoyance.

"Where's my blue striped shirt? Why wasn't it ironed?"

I met his gaze in the mirror. "It's in the closet. You can find it yourself," I said, my voice light. "The iron is in the storage room. You can get that yourself, too."

He froze, his hands hovering over his tie. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I swiveled on my stool to face him, a faint smile playing on my lips as I met his questioning stare. "It means exactly what you think it means. 50/50."

He still didn't seem to grasp it. He strode into the dini...